


What's Time to a (Ground) Hog?

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Groundhog Day, Time Loop, Trippy, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28444266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Logan doesn't blow up, but his wedding day doesn't blow over, either. Instead, he's got to figure out why he's playing variations on a theme.
Relationships: Logan Echolls/Veronica Mars
Comments: 38
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for Goldfish, whose idea it basically was. Many thanks to Silvery and Susan for brainstorming help, and also the title.  
> The weirdness is all my fault (and maybe 2020's).

When Logan sees the ticking bag in the back seat, he takes off running.

It’s not a conscious choice, this reaction; just adrenaline surging, the memory of intense light oversaturating his retinas. Of coming back to reality, ears ringing, to find himself in the lee of an abandoned tank, body parts scattered all around. Time simply skips, and suddenly he’s full-out sprinting through a neighborhood he doesn’t recognize, breath rasping, slick dress shoes skidding against the cracked pavement, while all around him, sidewalk-strollers stare.

He slows, panting. Rests palms on his knees, fighting the flashback, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth while he repeats his mantra—it’s just a memory, I’m not still there. I’m not injured, not dead, not crazy, not….

There was a bomb in Veronica’s car, he realizes, jolting upright. He could have died because parking in the street sweeper’s path is one more way she gives Neptune officials the finger.

Yanking free his phone, he dials her number, but gets an immediate out-of-service message; probably the bomb took out the cell tower on the corner. She was upstairs in the shower, protected by multiple walls from any blast. It may have blown out windows, but she wouldn’t be harmed, and they took Pony to Keith’s so the honeymoon would….

How could Veronica Mars, Neptune’s most brilliant former-teen detective, fail to notice explosives in her own backseat? She’s obsessive about checking them, ever since his father sprang from one like that fucking clown in Poltergeist and kickstarted her lifetime struggle with claustrophobia. Who even put it there in the first place? And why?

Most importantly, what reason could she have for not warning him last night, in the throes of post-coital, post-proposal bliss, that murderous forces were converging on their HOME?

He starts to move again, shoving cell and hands into the pockets of his now-sweat-damp suit jacket, breath coming slower as the fit of PTSD recedes. Walks and walks, because the thought of going back to the apartment, to rooms full of broken glass and a woman so blasé about danger, makes him break out in full-body shudders. Swamps him with older memories of feminine abandonment, and the suffering that resulted, back when he was too small, too weak, to protect himself.

Logan’s not small or weak anymore. He’s honed his body specifically for self-protection, since the world seems to want to end him, and he just proved it by dodging certain death.

The neighborhood gives way to mixed-use office complexes, which change, in turn, to low-rent shops as he makes his way towards the edge of town. It’s a decidedly more service-class area than the part of Neptune where he normally spends time, rife with check-cashing places, and gas-station bodegas, and economical chain restaurants with garish take-out counters. He begins to flag, just a little; when he spots a bar at one end of the latest block, it seems the most sensible course of action to step inside.

The decor has a very _How I Met Your Mother at Bennigan’s_ vibe, potted plants and brass light fixtures, battered round tables where appetizers can be consumed. The bar itself is oak and heavily-mirrored, and he slumps on a stool there, folding his arms along the scratched surface. Stares at his unkempt reflection past display bottles of gin.

He’s frowning—he looks formidable—which is when he realizes fear isn’t the emotion he feels.

He loves Veronica so much he’s spent the last five years living in the worst apartment on the PLANET, so much he just pushed past his all-encompassing fear of rejection to MARRY her, and she can’t even practice basic situational awareness to protect them both from DEATH?

He orders a double Jack from the anemic and slightly-Goth-y bartender, tosses it straight back, and orders another. Drinks this one more slowly, but without stopping, and decides no amount of five-hundred-dollar-an-hour therapy will make this relationship work.

Logan Echolls isn’t one for second-guessing, especially when matters of honor are concerned; so his fingertip hovers above his phone’s keypad only long enough to scroll contacts before tapping speed-dial number four. It rings once, high and shrill, and then Weidman intones, “Interesting police band radio chatter coming from the vicinity of your apartment.”

“No shit.” The knot at the base of his skull marginally relaxes. Few in his field are as competent as Clarence, and sounds like he’s already on the case. “Any injuries, besides my pride?”

“The deputy who let Ms. Mars remove her car from Kane High, following the bomb scare, is about to lose his job,” Clarence opines, a sentiment Logan hopes is founded. “And a few people are being treated for shrapnel and glass…but sounds like no fatalities. Veronica’s fine, if that’s what you’re asking. Minor cuts, and the EMT had to put a couple stitches in her tricep, but her back was to the blast.”

“You already have someone on the scene?” Logan glances out the front window, peering past the gold-leaf lettering, but can’t see any strobing light or color. He must have run further than he thought.

“I keep track of my contractors,” Clarence says mildly, which elicits a reluctant smile. “Even the ones paid under the table, because their primary employer would disapprove.”

“An apropos segue,” Logan says. “Because I’m calling to ask for a job right now…preferably one in a different state. I’ve got five weeks of vacation left before I have to decide whether to re-up; and in light of recent events, I’d rather not spend them fending off murder attempts in my apartment.”

There’s silence for a moment, broken only by bar murmurs on his end, and the faint sound of clacking on the other. Logan wonders, briefly, whether Clarence will try to reason with him. But, “I’ve got a bodyguard detail for a businessman in Dallas,” is all he says. “Is that far enough away for your peace of mind?”

“No, but I’ll cope.” Logan checks his watch—it’s 5:43—and silently requests a refill. “Can you book the flight and hotel room, and have someone meet me there with hardware? I’ve currently got my wallet but no gun, and it sounds like my apartment’s a crime scene.”

“Done,” Clarence says, mercifully not prying. “There will be a ticket waiting at the Southwest counter, I’m booking you now on a 7:15 flight. I’ll message you on Signal with reservation details, and leave the case-file in your Dropbox. Tony Watson will contact you once you check in, and escort you to meet the client in the morning.”

“Roger that.” Logan nods thanks at the bartender, drops a fifty beside his coaster, and tosses back the drink. The liquor’s buzzing along his nerves, now, making him driftier, looser, dissociated from panic. He’s not calm, exactly—the thought of taking one step back towards the site of his near-explosion makes him clench all over—but his hands have quit shaking. And he cares less about his life imploding, somehow. “And Clarence? Thanks.”

“I’ll tell Veronica you’re safe,” Wiedman says, instead of answering…or maybe that IS his answer. Then he hangs up, and Logan’s left alone in the wanna-be Yuppie bar, buzzed and sweat-soaked. Wondering whether he’s finally lost it, or finally wised up.

Regardless, he’s a disaster in a wedding suit with a plane to catch, and he needs to call a cab.

XXXXX

One security line, two flight transfers, and a sketchy suitcase-handoff at the Hilton Garden Inn later, Logan lies in a too-short hotel bed and tries not to think about death or his wife. The air conditioning’s set to arctic, but the humidity outside creeps in anyway; faintly, through the window, he can hear the shrieks of tourists, enjoying the city-view pool.

He’s drawn the blackout curtains, but he turns away from the sound anyway. Gazes through the dimness at the remains of his club sandwich, which he forgot to set outside the door. Usually he comes back from deployment thin, because the military’s idea of food is suspect, so he enjoys the carb-and-fat binges civilian life entails. But tonight, a faint, persistent nausea has deterred him.

His dilemma’s ridiculous, honestly, when objectively viewed; he’s a Julia Roberts rom-com character, fleeing wedded bliss. His entire life since puberty has been about seeking thrills and crushing on Veronica Mars…and yet one random act of God, courtesy of a frayed, grey Jansen Sport-Pak, has caused a complete one-eighty in his goals and dreams.

Because it just doesn’t feel silly, or forgivable, that she was this careless, frankly. It feels like the moment the house of cards he’s built collapsed.

Veronica always seemed like some elemental force of justice, to Logan, appearing in a streak of heavenly lightning to smite the unbelievers. But lately, her attacks seems less like heroism and more like lashing out at whoever’s most handy and vulnerable. He knows it’s his fatal flaw, cutting slack to those he loves who reject and wound. So maybe this bomb was a literal wake-up call. And now it’s time to cowboy up and fix his life.

He blinks, blinks again, the shadowy sandwich-shapes in his line of vision wavering and fading. Feels sleep ease over him like a warm tide, sucking him backwards into its depths.

XXXXX

Who knows how much later, he wakes to the assault of sunlight through blinds; stripes of orange across his closed lids trigger a circadian cascade. He yawns, stretches, feeling strangely rested despite a night of bizarre dreams, wherein he constantly fell into a surrealist, spiral-shaped abyss. He reaches down to scratch his stomach, then frowns at the lack of cloth covering it. He remembers tossing and sweating during the night. Maybe he yanked off his shirt?

And pants, he realizes, with a frown, he’s somehow stripped down to his altogether; which, while standard when he’s in his own house, isn’t the way he likes to roll on a job. Fellow operatives have a way of breaking into hotel rooms, which can put a guy at a situational disadvantage if his dick’s hanging out…

He rolls over, reaching for his phone on the nightstand to check the time, since he’s got to be dressed and in the lobby by 8:30…and his arm collides with flesh. Soft, warm, feminine flesh, fragrant and blanket-creased, which makes him recoil in alarm. His sleep-crusted eyes snap open, and he finds himself staring at his shocked reflection in a mirror. The beige-wood-framed mirror in his own terrible bedroom, in the awful, tiny apartment he shares with....Veronica.

And speaking of the devil--she squirms awake as the too-small bed shakes, thanks to all his lunging and jerking. Gazes up at him through sleepy blinks with a slowly-dawning smile. “Bad dreams?” she asks, voice sleep-roughened, and trails a black-polished fingertip down the center of his chest. “Having second thoughts about relinquishing your ‘Neptune’s Dreamiest Bachelor’ crown?”

Logan stares, heart pounding, because this is a variation on what she said to him yesterday morning, when he ALSO woke up naked in this bed after a long night of celebrating his impromptu engagement. When he soothed the subtle tremor in her voice by celebrating one more time. It made him late to pick up the wedding license, and kinda trashed the room, because the alarm went off and she threw a pillow at it, causing the dog….

The alarm erupts on cue, a shrill, repetitive bleat, and just like she did yesterday, Pony rouses to the signal of incipient breakfast. Shoulders her way through the door, planting paws on the footboard, her nose streaked in red because she….

Got into the half-eaten burger Veronica left on the counter.

He crab-walks backwards off the bed, towards the window, flattens himself against the slightly-peeling beige wall and stares, mouth gaping. Veronica frowns, sitting up in bed with her hair all messy, her favorite ancient, red quilt clutched to her chest. Shoves away an insistent dog with one foot. “Logan?” she asks, the way you ask a crazy person menacing you if they’ll pretty-please put down the knife. Looks past her shoulder, for the nonexistent threat she presumes is behind her; because he couldn’t be scared of HER, Veronica Mars, erstwhile fiancée and long-time defender of the downtrodden. “What the hell?”

His head shakes slowly, back and forth, like he’s a puppet jerked around by strings, and maybe he is. Or maybe the bomb got him after all, and this is hell.

Because the woman he loves leaving him to die, over and over and over, seems like a worse infernal punishment than even good old Aaron could have concocted.


	2. Chapter Two

Logan retreats to the shower.

He flees, not to put too fine a point on it, and locks himself in, shoves the weird little cabinet that holds extra toilet paper beneath the knob and turns the water on high. Shuts the worn glass door, back pressed against the tile, while the water hisses and sputters from lukewarm to scalding, and Pony scrabbles, whining, to be admitted. It can’t be yesterday anymore--teleportation and time travel don’t exist. If they did, with his security clearance, he’d know.

He doesn’t FEEL crazy, though…probably the famous last words of everyone who is, yet true. He feels saner than he has in a long time, to be honest, like he’s finally begun protecting himself. Getting his head on straight at last about deserving love, and being allowed to fail, and all the stuff Jane emphasizes at great length in their sessions. He’s left behind his baggage, he’s charted a new path, and yet his baggage is…

Currently pounding on the door, shouting, “Logan can you hurry up in there? Pony left shreds of yesterday’s paper all over the carpet, and I really need to pee!”

_Fuck_ , he mouths, because sometimes it’s the only word that feels adequate, and twists off the tap with a snap. Grabs a towel out of the cabinet blocking the door--which she’s rattling now, patience not being one of her virtues—and dries off hastily before winding it around his waist. Lifts and shifts the piece of furniture, so it won’t grind or topple, then ushers her in with a sweeping gesture and sardonic bob of brows.

She makes a face at his drama, but fuck it, if this is hell he’s under no obligation to play nice. Sweeps past him, slamming the door as soon as he clears the jamb. He stands in the hall, staring at the knob for a second, until Pony noses under his towel’s edge. He has to turn, then, smack her away, put some fucking clothes on, and cope with insanity.

_Another fine Navy day_ echoes through his brain, more a rote observation of fucked-upedness than a conscious thought, and he realizes the fatalism drilled into him via career could help with this. Get moving through the shit detail, then push on to the next, he decides. He throws on the first workout clothes he finds in the drawer and heads out into the living room to see if yesterday’s changed.

It hasn’t, so far; chewed fast food wrappers and bits of the Neptune Register are scattered across every surface, and his cell phone, still on the counter where he left it, is dinging with Keith’s third text of the morning. _Don’t forget to pick up the license_ , he reads, with slowly-dawning horror, followed by, _you can leave Pony with me during the honeymoon_ , and then, _should I get flowers? Every girl likes flowers on her wedding day, right?_

_How the fuck would I know_ , Logan thinks, because he’s proposed exactly once in his life, and look what happened. Aggressively, he yanks the vacuum from the closet, starting it with a smack that makes Pony dive behind the sofa. He tidies with a vengeance, then empties the dust cup with a rattle and clang, while, past the locked bathroom door, the shower hums steadily. SHE doesn’t have to vacate before she’s even stopped hyperventilating, he notes sourly; and then it hits him so hard, he sinks unsteadily to the floor.

Neither does he, anymore. Because if this IS hell, and he’s stuck here for the duration, why does he have to keep trying to make amends? What will he gain by proving he’s not the asshole he used to be? What has he seriously got left to lose?

“Fuck this all fucking backwards and forwards,” he mutters, tossing the dust cup aside with a clatter, then waving his hand to diffuse the resulting flurry of motes. “Girl, you and I have less-judgmental places to be.”

Crossing to the closet, he extracts Pony’s leash, then his surfboard and wetsuit for good measure. Snaps on the former, sets the latter on the porch beside the door, and makes Pony sit while he locates a six-pack of beer. Kicking his feet into flip-flops, he collects her car keys from her purse, then whistles for his dog and makes tracks.

If Veronica has errands to do, SHE can ride a fucking bike for once. Considering she rolled his convertible off a cliff last year, it’s honestly only fair.

Once shut in the car, cruising down the deserted-during-the-workday road at ten miles above the speed limit, he ejects her Arctic Monkeys CD, tosses it out the window, and inserts the Doors instead. The mellow, hypnotic groove of _Riders on the Storm_ begins to play, and he hums along. “A dog without a bone and an actor out on loan, huh girl?” he asks Pony, who puts her paw on his knee like she understands, making him smile. “Probably more accurate than we’d prefer. I’ve been role-playing a good boy for so long, I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”

He has no clue where he’s going, except away--from the town, the noise, the female spring breakers pawing at him. The male versions competing with him, even though he’s SO long in the tooth for college dick-measuring games. His phone’s still in the apartment, vibrating steadily towards the edge of the counter as Keith continues his pre-wedding freak-out, because his only angel’s marrying the biggest fuckup he knows. So Logan can’t call anyone, can’t consult a map, can’t check the internet for movie listings, or passive-aggressively change his social-media relationship status.

All he can do is what he used to do, during the brief stretches of his youth when life was clean and simple; find a beach without many assholes on it, locate a tennis ball beneath the seat to entertain his dog. And once Pony’s tired and sprawled panting beside him, he can lie inert in the sand, gazing up at the cloudless blue bowl of the spring sky, imagining gravity’s inverted. Picture himself floating, light as a cloud, into the vast unknown…away from everything that’s wounded his heart or cramped his style. Free at last, even from the tyranny of the ground.

A shadowy figure moves between him and the sun, backlit, and he lifts a shielding hand and squints upwards as Dick says, “Dude, what the fuck? Did you, like, drink yourself to death because it hit home you were getting hitched? And if so, why’d you bring along the pooch?”

“Absurd as that guess is,” Logan says, heaving himself upright, rubbing at his lids to dissipate sunspots, “it’s not entirely wrong. What are you doing here, man? I thought you had a shoot in Tahiti or something.”

“Hurricane,” Dick says succinctly, sinking down alongside. He wrestles a beer from its plastic ring, pops the tab, and chugs. “Gonna have to film the _Fantasy Island_ torture-porn reboot another day. Shame…I was looking forward to NOT being here for your night of despair, as you sign away all the millions you make me pretend you don’t have.”

“If people think I’ve got money,” Logan says wearily, because at this point he has the speech memorized, “they hound me. They suck up, and wheedle, and I never get a moment’s fucking peace. But when people think I NEED money, not only do they leave me alone, I can take any dangerous, interesting job I stumble across, and no one will say, ‘hey, you shouldn’t do that, you’re in the Navy!’ Because they understand…I’m desperate. I need all the cash I can get.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, just to do what you want in the first place.” Dick sprawls beside him, so Logan lies back down. “Then again, if you didn’t enjoy trouble, you wouldn’t be shackling yourself to Veronica Mars.”

“I’m not,” Logan says mildly, because he’s perfectly capable of playing hooky all day. It’s a skill he polished young, and yadda yadda, riding a bicycle. The universe might conspire to trap him in eternal torment, and he might be helpless to escape its judgment, but he doesn’t have to make things easy. God knows he never made ‘em easy for Aaron, and his father didn’t kill him, in the end.

“Wait, what?” Dick rolls to look at him, splashing beer. Logan grimaces, wiping his bicep, and Dick says, “Are you serious? You’re not SHACKLING?”

“Behold the runaway bride.” Logan makes a sweeping gesture, encompassing his entire recumbent form, and Dick hoots so loud he startles Pony awake. “I take it you approve?”

“Dude, I never thought this day would come.” Dick sits up, drains the can in ritualistic celebration, throws it towards the water and pops another. “I may need a minute--I’m afraid I might actually cry.”

Logan snorts, unsure, as always, exactly how serious Dick is, and sternly represses the urge to defend Veronica’s honor. “So, as it happens, I find myself free for the afternoon,” he says. “Any laws in particular you feel like breaking?”

Dick digs a hole, sets the can inside it, and flops back with a groan. “Mostly I just wanna sit in the AC and snarf a burrito,” he says. “Not to be a buzzkill or whatever, since you finally pried Ronnie’s claws out of your balls. I went to some spring-break costume contest last night that turned into a beach raver, and I woke up next to the pier half an hour ago with my wallet missing. So you get to be my sugar daddy--only I’m not putting out no matter how much you bat your eyes.”

“Curses, foiled again,” Logan says, with a snap. Then they lie on the beach, not talking, for a long time, watching surfers, drinking beer, and giving zero fucks, just like old times. Say what you will about Dick--and certainly Logan has--he’s always loyal. Plus, he no longer gets trashed enough to bring drama, and he knows how to chill out and simply exist, a skill certain OTHER people can’t manage. Right now, faithful and uncomplicated is exactly what he needs.

Eventually, Dick’s stomach rumbles, and by mutual consent, they rise; gather their trash, wake the dog, and hike up the beach to Rudy’s Seafood Shack, a dive that smells like old grease and warm ketchup. It has air conditioning, though, and chairs that can support a grown man’s weight--also TV’s that play sports, news, and reruns of _The Price Is Right_ , which suits the regular clientele.

Logan orders a bucket of Coronitas and both fries and hush puppies, since fuck it, he’s in hell--he doesn’t have to worry about his abs anymore. Popping open a beer, he studies one of those Bob Barker blondes who never seems to age, spinning the giant wheel in heels without losing her balance. Reflects that days like this might have filled his life, had he never sought to better himself via the Navy. Circumnavigating the globe to surf with Dick and Casey Gant, avoiding or meeting the eye of cute beach-front cashiers, depending on the expansiveness of his mood.

Certainly, he could never impress Veronica Mars with such choices, but at the moment, that doesn’t sound so bad. He tugs Pony’s leash to shift her so a waitress can navigate past, then uses a tortilla chip as incentive to get her to lie beneath the table. Decides maybe he’ll burn in eternity slacker-style for a while, since he’s got nothing better to do.

Dick returns, flops into his chair with a belch, and swirls a chip through salsa, which drips all over his shirt en route to his mouth. Grabs another, using it to point at one of the TV’s, and says, “Dude, why are they showing footage of my dad from the NUTT meeting again?”

Logan frowns as the camera cuts to the (of course) overly-elaborate mansion from which Richard Casablancas Senior is orchestrating his latest REIT crimes, because A) it’s an aerial view, which B) shows the driveway packed with flashing-siren cop cars, and C) the perky brunette reporter has donned a somber expression…and that never means anything good. “Dude,” he says slowly, setting down his bottle, “Have you gotten any collect phone calls this morning? Like the kind somebody makes when they need bail?”

“Maybe whoever robbed me did,” Dick says, and turns slowly to face him, mirroring his worried expression. “Shit, do you think the SEC came after Pops again already? He just got OUT of the joint!”

“I left my cell at the apartment,” Logan says, and calls, “Hey, can you turn that up?” as the waitress passes. She shrugs, denying responsibility, and he sighs. “What say we mosey down to the police station in lieu of lunch? I have a feeling your bank-account routing number and ability to sign documents might come in handy in the near future.”

Dick grabs the bucket off the table as their waitress arrives, tosses the baskets of fried appetizers inside, and Logan sighs again and hands her a hundred since they’re making off with dishes. “Is it lame,” Dick muses, as he coaxes Pony out and tosses her a hush puppy for behaving, “that I’m the fucking King of Spring Break in this town at age thirty-four, and my dad’s STILL a bigger fuckup?”

“Don’t count yourself out.” Logan leads him through the door and towards Veronica’s Hyundai. “I’m sure you can be a much bigger fuckup without too much effort, if you’ll just knuckle down and apply yourself.”

“Dude, you always know the right thing to say.” They reach the lot, Logan wincing as his thin flip-flops do little to protect his feet from the asphalt. He picks up the dog to carry her so she doesn’t burn her toes, and Dick snickers as they approach the vehicle. “Whoa, you ditched Veronica at the altar and stole her car besides? It’s the Logan Echolls I thought I’d never see again, reborn. You think maybe in hell it’s snowing?”

“I seriously doubt it,” Logan mutters, as they wedge themselves, plus the enormous dog, into the car’s cramped interior. “But considering how this day’s gone so far, I can’t count anything out.”

The usually-sleepy police station in their poverty-free incorporated township is bustling with unaccustomed activity; they park in the visitor’s lot. A podium’s being constructed on the front steps, giving Logan bad flashbacks to his father’s murder trial, and that weird, bald cop who shadows Marcia is doing sound checks that squeal with feedback. He shares a look with Dick, doubling Pony’s leash to keep her close, and they hike up to the doors…but nobody pays them any attention. The worse you’re dressed in Neptune, these days, the richer you probably are. And currently, they both look like shit.

Marcia’s in her office, talking on the police-band radio with a focused frown that doesn’t disappear once she hangs up. It deepens, in fact, as Logan gives a cursory knock before invading, and she snaps, “Can I help you?” with an edge that makes it clear he should walk away.

“Uh, yeah…we saw my friend’s dad’s house on the news just now. We’re wondering if maybe he needs lawyers, or possibly bail?” Logan gestures with his thumb at Dick, who waves half-heartedly. Pony sits, keeping a signal eye on Marcia but not bristling; this means she’s probably not as shitty as the last three people who supposedly enforced laws in Neptune.

Her frown fades, or maybe transmutes into faint disapproval. “Maloof’s bodyguard, right?” she asks, dry. “Clearly you’re off duty this morning.”

Logan shrugs. “In between gigs at the moment. Currently doing a favor for a pal, whose father, once again, seems to be in trouble? Richard Casablancas, senior? Ridiculously-overpriced mansion out on Vista del Mar?”

Marcia abruptly sets down the pen she’s been tapping, which must be her faintly-annoyed tell. “Shut the door, why don’t you?” she says, not a request, and gets up to circle the desk as Logan complies. Sits on the edge, gesturing for them to take the visitors’ seats. “Mr. Casablancas, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we believe your father met with foul play this morning. His maid found a body at the residence when she arrived to clean, and we’re currently trying to determine whether it’s his.”

“Wait, what?” Dick looks as bewildered as he used to back in junior high, when Duncan would practice for debate club and perform both sides of the argument. “How can you not know? Was he, like, wearing a cunning disguise?”

Logan grimaces, and Marcia’s expression turns sympathetic. “It’s just that some of him is…missing. Specifically, his head. We believe he was killed with a sword from the homeowner’s collection; it was found protruding from the…remains.”

“Are you fucking KIDDING me?” Dick surges upwards and turns in an agitated circle. “Someone went all _Kill Bill_ on my DAD? Shit, he never even got beat up in prison--nobody hates him that much. Even the Beav only wanted his approval, and he was, like, a mass murderer.”

“It’s not so easy, sometimes, to figure out who the corpse used to be, in the absence of dental records,” Logan says, gently. “And imagine how much trouble it would cause, if Marcia made a condolence call to the wrong family because she rushed.”

“It’s pretty fuckin easy when the corpse has a giant tattoo down his forearm that says _BIG DICK_ ,” Dick argues, Logan must admit persuasively. “Take me down there, I’ll ID him. And don’t worry, I won’t puke. If I could recognize my brother after he fell through a Miata sunroof, daddy dearest should be cake.”

Marcia lifts her brows, reinforcing Logan’s belief that she can’t have lived in Neptune long; for this town, Dick’s life story’s ho-hum. But she obligingly picks up the phone, and in a minute that freak-show cop appears again, as if summoned from the sunless depths. “Bob, can you please escort Mr. Casablancas to the morgue? He’s asked to view the remains from this morning. He feels confident he can identify our victim.”

The guy nods silently and oozes out, Dick in tow. Beside Logan’s chair, Pony emits a faint growl-huff, so he adds one more person to the don’t-trust list. “If you’d like to wait for your friend in the…” Marcia begins, as soon as Dick and Bob round the corner, prelude to a dismissal. But she’s interrupted by a uniform poking his head through the door, while simultaneously rapping on it.

“Fifteen minutes until we gotta charge Epner or let him go,” the guy says, unceremonious. “You sure we can’t find SOME pretext to hold him longer?”

“What, like falsify evidence?” She scowls, and he responds by pretending to look abashed. “We can’t hold him with no proof, Tony, no matter how guilty he seems.”

“Are we talking about the pizza boy?” Logan asks, incensed. “Because here’s a crime for you--he killed a ton of people. Even in Neptune, that should be grounds to lock him up.”

Marcia fixes him with a stern-grade-school teacher look, the likes of which has, luckily, never fazed him. “If you’ve got something that will stand up in court, I’d love to see it. But if not, I’ll have to let him go. Because one, I don’t think he set that first bomb, and two, Veronica Mars just called to say he didn’t set the others, either.” Logan opens his mouth to protest, since him nearly blowing up seems like proof to the contrary, and she holds out a silencing hand. “In my opinion, Epner fits the profile; but if I went around arresting everyone in this town who acts like a sociopath, half the rich people would be behind bars.”

“Amen to that,” Logan says, and her chiding expression turns to exasperation. “You really don’t recognize me, do you? You’re maybe the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t. You must’ve never in your life watched TMZ.”

“Be that as it may,” she snaps, “I don’t have time to play twenty questions.”

“Right.” He glances over his shoulder towards the courthouse steps. “Katana-ravaged-body-announcing press conference…I forgot. Enjoy.”

She glances away, as if embarrassed, and it’s Logan’s turn to lift his brows. “Um, actually we’re holding off on that reveal until the corpse is identified,” she says. “This op is to put out an APB on the new bombing suspect. Some Hobbit-like conspiracy theorist named Don, according to the Mars clan. Don, however, has flown the coop.”

“Wait, Don the Murderhead, Don?” Logan sits forward. “From Epner’s social-rejects club? He can’t be guilty--he lives in DC.”

“No, apparently he lives in San Diego,” she says. “Or so Neptune’s most media-profiled private investigator informs me. And how do you know so much about the bombings, anyway?”

“Because I’m supposed to marry said investigator in…” he peers past her at the clock. “Five hours. And I went with her like a week ago to scope one of their meetings, which was held at Epner’s evil lair. They accused me of murder, natch…it was déjà vu all over again.”

Light dawns, finally, in her eyes. “You’re the Echolls kid,” she says.

“I’d say guilty, but you’d get the wrong impression,” he replies. “I will, however, tell you right now, from personal experience? Veronica generally guesses the suspect wrong until right before he kidnaps her and confesses. So if I were you, I’d take this whole Don thing with a grain of salt…at least until you’ve had the chance to do your own legwork.”

She sits back. “My knowledge of Veronica is limited,” she says. “But I grew up with her father, and he’s a similar kind of hothead.”

Logan snorts. “Don’t spread that around. You’ll ruin his rep.”

“So how is it,” she asks, steepling her fingers, “that you’re engaged to Veronica, but you heard about the murder at the Casablancas residence on the news? Because I called Keith this morning and told him all about it myself.”

“Went to the beach without my phone,” he says, thinking _V knew about Dick’s dad yesterday, but neglected to tell me?_ “Happened to see coverage at a restaurant over lunch.”

“And Casablancas doesn’t have his cell either?” she asks. “I left him several messages as well.”

“Golly, am I a suspect all of a sudden?” Logan gives an aw-shucks snap. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you my name. Do I need to alert my lawyer?”

“Just don’t leave town,” she says, and he smiles.

“Even if I did,” he murmurs, “I have this weird feeling I’d be back by morning. The irresistible, Hotel California lure of Neptune, perhaps. I joined the Navy and fled to the ends of the Earth, but never shall I escape this town’s grasp.”

“Anybody happen to mention you’re kinda emo and over-dramatic, Echolls?” Marcia arches a brow as he rises with flair and Pony follows suit. “I feel like they must have, only you took it as encouragement.”

“Good luck finding Don who didn’t do it,” Logan says, in lieu of responding. “And I’d track Epner when I cut him loose, if I was you. I doubt he’ll waste much time returning to his explosively-murderous ways.”

He saunters out, confident he’s made his point, and flops down on the intake bench to wait for Dick.

The heel-kicking doesn’t last long—Logan’s seen his share of corpses, and knows they mostly resemble the person they used to be. Within five minutes, Lieutenant Sergeant oozes out of the abyss to return Dick, pale but blustering; within six they’re back in V’s car, Dick fishing a Coronita out of the now-melted ice, and Logan backing from the parking lot, double-time.

“It was him for sure,” is the first thing Dick says, a statement punctuated by chugging. “Or most of him, anyway. I guess if he had assets he didn’t steal from someone, I’ll be taking possession pretty soon.”

“Always looking on the bright side.” Logan navigates onto the highway, wondering what might soothe a guy like Dick on a day like this. “Think they’ll let Pony hang in your suite at the Grand? We could order room service and Instacart booze. It’s my turn to mooch a place to sleep, anyway.”

“Why not?” Dick asks, as on the opposite side of the road, a car that looks like Keith’s budget grey sedan passes. “Where else are we gonna go? I mean, we’re probably both suspects now, since some freak show turned my dad into sushi.”

“Marcia thinks Epner didn’t set the first bomb,” Logan informs him. “Which means someone else did… and my guess for the lucky culprit is Clyde. Dude’s smart enough to frame someone else to avoid arrest, and he clearly wants a slice of your dad’s beachfront-property pie.”

“You really think Clyde’s the ninja-warrior type?” Dick asks, confused, and Logan sighs.

“No, I think Clyde killed the nephew of a Mexican mob boss by mistake, and framed your dad--and said mob boss’ hitmen didn’t take the accident kindly,” he explains. “I ID’d those two douchebags for Veronica several days ago, and it sounds like their MO is decapitation. Which is, I don’t want to say a coincidence, but…”

“Figures.” Dick rolls down the window so he can pitch the empty bottle. It smashes on the asphalt, and he uncaps another. “Dad barely got punished for the crimes he really did--but the second he gets framed, some weirdo in a Guayabera chops off his fucking head.”

“Well, the local cops are chasing V’s false bomber leads, at the moment.” Logan hooks a right before pulling into the Grand’s parking garage. “So I doubt we’ll learn more until the Feds show up at your door. GOD I hope it won’t be D’Amato, taking lead. Or maybe I hope it WILL be? I’d love the chance to punch him until his mumble’s even more slurred.”

“Oh, is he the reason you finally dumped Ronnie?” Dick brows lift significantly as they cross to the elevator. The interior proves yellow, still, when the doors slide open; the fake trees are peeling now, but remain determinedly glowing. Logan recalls the poor decisions he’s made within its confines as sluggishly, it begins to rise. “I thought she only lost her head over guys with big wallets or uniforms.”

“Maybe we could consider this growth?” Logan asks, instead of contradicting. Because ‘she doesn’t love me’ is a better explanation for his actions than ‘we’re trapped in a Satanic time loop after she negligently blew me to shreds. And I, at least, will experience this day over and over forever’. Dick just snorts at the statement, though, and shoves open his door.

“If you’re ordering food, I want cheese puffs,” his erstwhile companion says, tossing his card key on the coffee table before wandering into the bathroom. The shower starts as Pony lumbers onto the couch, then circles twice, knocking off decorative cushions, before finally curling up. Logan collapses into a chair, sand sifting from his clothes onto the white carpet; ponders the injustice of a repeating day during which everyone but him gets to bathe.

Sighing, he grabs Dick’s laptop off the footstool, enters his perennial password (PartyMonsterNo1) and closes the five resulting porn pop-ups. He queues delivery of dog food, bowls, cheese puffs, beer, and two bottles of Jack, then orders buffalo burgers from room service for nostalgia’s sake. He’s just turned the TV on to channel-surf when Dick emerges in sweatpants, plus a t-shirt that reads _Don’t Hate Me ‘Cause I’m Famous_ , desultorily towel-drying his hair.

“Food and drink are en-route.” Logan tosses the remote on the couch and rises, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Mind if I?” Dick shrugs, flopping backwards and queueing up _Westworld_ —he’s a better roommate in times of crisis than certain fiancees Logan could name.

After scrubbing off accumulated detritus with hotel toiletries, he dresses in a pair of his own jeans that Dick borrowed last week, plus the only plain-white t-shirt in the drawer, and returns to the living room to find burgers waiting. They wash down food with the last lukewarm beers, while Dick says things like, “Check it out, the guy who created the murder robots is a murder robot, too.” Then the booze arrives, and the real drinking begins.

They’re five cocktails in, more liquor than Logan’s consumed since that night, post-Kandahar, he got blitzed with the interpreter, when Dick mutters, “Dude. Isn’t that Jake?”

“Must be his school.” Logan cracks one eye open, attempting to focus, although the music Dick’s blasting disorients, and the room is, frankly, undulating. “Wallace said they offered him a shitload to teach there, and he couldn’t turn it down. Veronica was pissed, of course; called it a ploy to segregate Neptune High from the ‘polluting lower class’. But it seems to me the poor kids are getting the better deal overall.”

“Be funny if Donut showed up at the ribbon-cutting with that kid he kidnapped,” Dick says sleepily. “Only isn’t she a teenager now? I wonder if she looks like Meg Manning. Meg was HAWT.”

“Ew.” Logan leans forward to better focus on the screen. “No perving on girls literally young enough to be your daughter, dude. And alas, I don’t see Duncan in the scrum. Wallace is there, though. And Clemmons. And that weird kid whose dad blew up—she was in my apartment with V the other day.”

Dick jerks, spilling beer, as a grey sedan barrels into the frame, squealing to a stop in the seating area and scattering onlookers. Veronica dives from the driver’s seat—of course--and rushes the stage, wrestling the mic away from Jake before yelling into it.

A panicked stampede follows as cops converge, and the camera cuts abruptly to a still-perky Martina Vasquez, clad in red. The scrolling chiron beneath her reads _BOMB DISCOVERED AT KANE HIGH_ , and Logan feels adrenaline kick in, dispelling booze.

“Dude, turn Green Day off and un-mute!” he yells as Dick tries to sit up, fumbling with various remotes. “What the fuck time is it, anyway? Aren’t I supposed to be getting married at five? Shouldn’t she be sitting in the courthouse right now, waiting in vain for me to show?”

“When has Ronnie ever sat still waiting for anything?” Dick asks, which is fair. The camera cuts back to the car surrounded by chaos, and he adds, “Wait. Isn’t that the guy who blew up everything in the back seat?”

“Guess this explains how the bomb got in her car,” Logan mutters as students begin booking it away from the building, hands on top of their heads like they’re taught these days during active shooter drills. “What’s her logic in bringing the murderer to the crime scene? He went to so much trouble setting the charges, he should at least enjoy the show?”

“He’ll be watching the explosion from inside if Keith doesn’t move that Honda,” Dick observes, as a deputy yanks Epner from the vehicle and cuffs him. Keith, meanwhile, is lifting some sewer grate while people scream and flee around him, and Veronica stands six feet away, sobbing. The camera cuts back to Martina, and Dick manages to turn up the sound just as she says, “…efforts to defuse are underway, as students present for the dedication ceremony are rushed to safety.”

“They’re just letting KEITH cut the wires?” Logan demands, running a hand up into his hair and gripping. “While a bunch of cops and teenagers stand around WATCHING? What the fuck kind of clown show is Marcia running? I take back every good thought I’ve had about her competence; at least Van Lowe knew kids blowing up on air was bad press!”

Martina interrupts her spiel to press a fingertip to her earpiece, then flashes her Pepsodent smile at the camera. “We’ve just received word that the bomb has been defused,” she intones, over video of Veronica rushing to Keith and hugging him, as several more black-and-whites and a fire engine park nearby. The low-grade nausea in Logan’s gut intensifies as celebration breaks out among the first responders, and he gets up without a word and walks into the bedroom.

Veronica might not have cared enough to save him from the bomb, resulting in his premature death and eternal damnation, but still. He’s not sure he can face himself in the mirror if he chooses to respond in kind.

Sitting on the bed, Logan picks up the landline’s receiver and dials V’s number by memory. Listens to the distant sound of Martina’s platitudes as it rings and rings, and no one answers. Hanging up, he hesitates then sighs, and dials Keith instead.

His near-miss father-in-law picks up immediately, saying, “Logan?” into the receiver like it’s a curse word he’s just invented. “Where the hell have you been? Veronica tried to call you all morning—said you took off with the dog and car while she was in the shower, and didn’t even leave a note!”

“I’m with Dick,” Logan says, somewhat coldly. “Because apparently his father was murdered, which neither of you saw fit to tell him. Or me.”

“Of course I would have,” Keith insists, unwilling, even after a near-death experience, to relinquish the upper hand, “but we’ve been on the trail of this bomber, and we just…”

“I saw,” Logan says, cutting across him. “I’ve been watching you on the news. And Keith, word of advice? That car you just parked on Kane School grounds, which you were last spotted celebrating beside…Penn Epner was in the back seat, right? Might behoove you to move everyone away from the vehicle, now-ish, and have the bomb squad check it out, before your recent bout of heroism becomes moot. Gonna be hard to chastise me for ditching your daughter if you’re nothing but a charcoal smear on Kane-owned pavement.”

“I’ll call you back,” Keith says before hanging up, and Logan sets down the receiver, on the nightstand but off the hook. Tilts gently onto the overly-soft bed, and closes his eyes.

Sleep eludes him—maybe he’s too drunk, or maybe he fears what will happen once he succumbs—and time stretches and drifts. He thinks about fate, and the way his always ends with him trapped and alone. Thinks about the serenity prayer—the ability to accept what he can’t change, and the courage to change what he can—and realizes he’s never been good at accepting inevitability.

Trying may not accomplish much, when stuck in a time warp with a bunch of psychos. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to stop.

After a long while, Dick stumbles in—sits on the other side of the bed and kicks off his shoes. “What are you doing back here?” he asks, voice slurred. “Did you already pass out?”

“Just thinking about dharma.” Logan’s voice is quiet beneath the whir of the slowly-spinning fan. “In particular, mine. And how it seems to be about continuing to fight as long as I possibly can.”

“Dude, you know that guy Wu talked about so much in physics class? The one who said when you put cats in boxes, they disappear? You think more than that freak did, about even stranger shit.”

“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell,” Logan says, and Dick snorts.

“World doesn’t need our help to suck,” he says. “But you know if you’re gonna fight someone, I got your back. Even though, generally speaking, we’re a little old for surf-punk shit.”

“Thanks man,” Logan says. “But you lack the military training for tomorrow’s agenda…so maybe you should sit this one out.”

“You’re going on another mission already?” Dick lies back on the bed, mattress creaking under his weight. “Didn’t you JUST get home?”

“Nope,” Logan says. “I’m gonna go back in time to this morning, stop those hitmen from murdering your dad, make sure Epner stays in jail all day, then figure out exactly where in this town the Hellmouth’s hidden.”

“Whoa, you are WAS-TED.” Dick settles into his pillow with a sigh. “You always were a little bitch who couldn’t hold his liquor, though, when you got your shorts in a twist over some girl.”

“Dick, you’re a disaster of a human being,” Logan says, yawning. “But you’re a good friend. And you’ve had a long and spectacularly-awful day, so why don’t you try and sleep?”

Dick grunts and rolls over, turning his back. The room begins to spin in lazy loops, as the mattress shudders and settles, and then slowly, everything goes black.


End file.
